Choices
by Marshstone
Summary: When Paulina breaks up with Dash for a popularity upgrade, Dash ends up in a friendship that will destroy his popularity, but change him for the better. Sometimes, one good friend is all that's needed to redeem yourself. But when everyone seems against their friendship because she's Muslim, will Dash stay with her or cave to peer pressure and remain a bully? Eventual Dash/OC.
1. Chapter 1

She had been assigned to be Dash's math tutor.

That was how they met, and how several days passed in awkward silences and stilted words. Dash wasn't sure if he was offending her or not, the way he stared at her headscarf – hijab, she'd muttered once, it was called a hijab – and the way he studied her beautiful handwriting. There was something about being taught by the new girl at school that left him without a leg to stand on. She wasn't popular, she wasn't unpopular. She wasn't friends with his circle, wasn't bullied, simply existed, invisible and off the radar. She was a loner not by choice but by the circumstances of being the only girl in school of her religion, or at least the only one Dash knew of.

Tahira al-Tariq was simply his tutor until Paulina broke up with him to go out with a senior who was top of the food chain. He was the laughingstock of the football team, a position he didn't know if he could take. It felt like the ground had dropped out from under him. He wanted nothing more than to get out of school for the weekend and ignore the world. Downtrodden, Dash arrived at Tahira's house to find that her father, who always seemed parked in front of the living room TV watching the news and glancing over at them occasionally, was not present. Instead the kitchen had been used, and there were a few plates of food out for Dash. She presented one to him with a small smile.

"Try it," she insisted gently. "My mother always said that food soothed things over."

He picked up what looked like pita bread with olive oil and some kind of herbs he couldn't identify. Too tired to argue, he picked up a piece, nibbling it cautiously. That quickly turned into taking a large bite as he realized how good it was. Her relieved smile made him smile weakly back at her. Apparently she wasn't going to make fun of him for being dumped by the most popular girl in school. In fact, she sat down at the kitchen table with him, Math book in hand, with extra outlines and pages of helpful quick tips. Her hijab was blue that day. It was a color she favored.

Tahira idly asked if he felt better as he polished off his second plate of whatever it was he was eating. He chuckled. "I think this is the best I've felt all day. Other than Kwan and you, everybody's been treating me like crap. You're really something else."

"I'm just doing what anyone should. You've had a hard enough day." She straightened up and smoothed out her dress. "Would you like some tea while we go over next week's assignment? If you get it done early you'll be able to cut out of the class. I know you don't want to put up with Paulina right now."

"…sure. Tea sounds great." It did; it was winter, after all. He idly played with the last bit of bread on his plate, looking at all the work she'd done for him, and he couldn't help his next question. "Tahira, why are you doing all this for me?"

"You need it," she said simply.

"No, I mean it. You know I'm a bully. _I_ know I'm a bully. I'm a jock. I don't even talk to you at school. What is this, some kind of play to pick me up on the rebound? You trying to get in with the popular crowd? Maybe you want more pay for tutoring?" He looked at her, but he saw in her cool brown eyes he was wrong.

"You need someone to be your friend right now. That's all. I had time after Friday's sermon to make something for you. I really don't know you well enough to know what else to do, Dash. I want to help, but I can't. And that bothers me." She looked down at the tea as she put it in the microwave. "How Paulina treated you bothers me. Kwan told me you've known her since first grade. This is not how she should have broken up with you. It's just mean spirited."

"She's not all bad," Dash defended the girl that had dumped him hours ago, quietly. "She has a good side. It just doesn't come out very often. Less and less, these days, but who am I to talk, you know?"

"Everyone deserves to talk," Tahira replied, setting the tea in front of him. "So, talk. It will help clear your head."

And he did. He talked, words spilling forth into the warmth of her presence and the trust in her eyes and the softness of her being. He told her about Paulina needing help to go higher on the swings when she was little, how that was how they'd met. How she had known about his hobbies and never blackmailed him. How she had been at the funeral when his mother died. Their first dance they'd declared the song Book Of Love their song, forever. Paulina had made him look at bridal magazines together. She had told him they were the real thing, that she loved him, and he'd said it back and then she broke up with him. It was the worst kind of backstabbing he'd ever endured. Sudden as lightning, in front of the school, it was all over.

Tahira listened. She actually cared about what he had to say. He went on and on until it was dark out and a foot of snow had fallen. He drank his tea, he ate his food, she took the dishes away to give him something else to eat, which he tucked into for the comfort of warm food. It was some kind of tomato sauce with thick vegetable chunks over rice, and it was good. Comfort and relaxation rolled over him in waves until he realized he had quit talking and they were eating in companionable silence.

"There's an Arabic proverb that says that if you are hurting and I ignore you, I have failed myself." She looked at the plate as she played with her food. "I arranged this with some help from my father with the cooking so I could help you not hurt so badly. When we're together, you've always been guarded and kind of tired looking. But you've never disrespected me or been cruel to me. You've been tolerant and even polite. You say there's more to Paulina, and I can see it now. Yet I think that truthfully, there's more to you than just being a bully or a jock."

"Maybe before. I had more to me – I was Paulina's boyfriend. Now, what do I have?" he asked honestly, looking up and meeting her eyes.

"You have your sports, your improved grades, your friend Kwan. And if you'll let me, then you have me, Dash." She did not look away, even though the silence was deafening.

He stared at her for a full twelve seconds before his smile finally met his eyes. "…I'd like that."


	2. Chapter 2

Tahira didn't know anything about football. To Dash, this was a tragedy, and one that he corrected on Saturday.

He came over with a rulebook and turned the TV to the sports channel so they could go over a football game from a month ago in detail. He was especially proud to rope her father into it, despite his lack of interest in sports, and they spent a good two hours on it. Dash couldn't keep from smiling every time that Tahira smiled. She took things in with wide eyes and a soft smile, captivated by the wonder of something as simple as football. All his life he'd felt the same way about it, that it was mesmerizing and something that could brighten a bad day. Her father wasn't as enamored, and ducked into the kitchen to bring them tea that Dash nearly spit out, causing Tahira to giggle quietly.

"It's called Awakening Tea, at least in English. It's good for the immune system and helps wake us up in the morning," her father, Bakri, explained with a smile. "Since you play sports, I can't imagine you want to get sick even in the off season."

"Really? Thanks." Dash took another gulp of it. It was burning hot with cayenne pepper and sour with lemon juice – or something that tasted like it – with something else to it that he couldn't identify. "This sounds a lot better than doing energy drinks before games like some guys do. But how'd you know I was on the football team before now?"

"Tahira has told me a lot about you," he replied with a small shrug. "Now, even though it's my day off, I have some paperwork to do. I assume you two will behave?"

"_Ab-ab,_" Tahira nearly whined, "He's just a friend. Don't be silly."

"You're my little girl. It's my job." He left the room with a quick glance towards Dash, lips quirking a little in a smile.

Tahira turned to Dash, looking eager. "Can you explain basketball to me? Kwan tried to, but I did not understand him very well. You two are on the team together, right?"

"Yeah, and yeah. Get me more of this tea stuff and we'll cover it. Didn't know you liked sports, Tahira. That's really cool." He didn't notice her faint blush at the compliment. "Paulina was never into sports, even though she's a cheerleader. Star used to play basketball – you remember Star, the blonde girl who is like, obsessed with flower hair clips – before she broke her ankle in middle school and was banned from playing. Most of the girls I know who like sports are players."

"I don't think I wish to play," she thoughtfully responded as she walked towards the kitchen, "But I wish to learn. Is that okay?"

"That's great." It took his mind off of everything, and for that, he was grateful.

After they were done with basketball Tahira decided to show Dash how to make the tea he was rapidly becoming a fan of, once he got used to the burning sensation.

"I like cooking," he confessed, "But after my Mom died, my Dad took over the kitchen."

She paused. "How did she – I mean, if you do not wish to discuss it-"

"Lung cancer from smoking. I was six when it happened. My older brother Damian helped out financially, for a while, until we were back on our feet. It was rough, but Kwan and Paulina helped me through it." It seemed no matter what they discussed, Paulina was always in there somewhere. He tried not to dwell on it. "What about your mom?

"My mother died in childbirth. I never knew her. So I keep her recipes alive. It makes me feel close to her."

"…I watch soap operas like she did," he admitted very softly, watching her for the inevitable cringe that didn't come as her gaze turned understanding. "It was good for me. Helps me understand girls better, too, which helps since we don't have any in my family now. I have a grandfather and an uncle in Modesto, in California, and four cousins, but they're all guys. Girls are something I seem to be messing up a lot."

"You haven't messed up with me once," Tahira defended him as she wrote down the recipe in careful, neat handwriting for him. "You have been very good to me, despite your reputation. _Hal indaka salaam._"

He didn't ask what it meant; it was encouragement, and that was enough. "You make Arabic sound cool."

"And you make English sound authoritative. It's very nice."

Now it was his turn to blush, but she didn't see it.

They decided to do a grocery run together, because, as Dash explained to her father, he could carry more stuff than she could. This seemed to please Bakri greatly, as he called Dash chivalrous. It was a high compliment that made Dash feel a bit awkward.

Still, there was something to be said for walking along with someone in the winter, with the cool crisp air in their lungs and the sun shining, creating sparkles all around them. He couldn't help but smile as Tahira took bits of snow and popped them into her mouth like a happy child. She seemed to love winter as much as he did, with her wide selection of coats hanging in the closet along with mittens. She paused when they passed the park to watch the ice skaters. Her face lit up as one girl did some impressive tricks, spinning on one leg and gliding backwards smoothly into a landing, twirling. Tahira sighed contentedly.

"I wish I could learn that," she said to him as they moved on. Dash grinned.

"I'll have to have you and Kwan spend more time together, then. He may not look it, but he's great at it. Helps keep our legs strong for sports, you know? I can't do any fancy tricks like that girl was doing, though."

"I don't wish to be a master at it, just to do it. I like that they have that ice circle around the Christmas tree. It's very beautiful, even if I don't celebrate Christmas." She seemed to enjoy all the decorations, actually. Dash could see her smile as they passed some. "It brightens up the night. It'll be a shame when they take them down."

"My dad leaves them up until Valentine's Day, actually. He thinks they're great, too."

"And you?"

Dash paused. "I take 'em for granted. Most people who grow up with them do."

"That's a shame. There's so much beauty in the little things. I do miss Ramadan sweets, though. My father and I aren't any good at making them."

"Maybe I can help. You tutored me so well I'm pulling an A in Math, after all. It's the least I can do to help you out." He saw her eyes light up and felt proud of himself before it dawned on him. "Wow, maybe I'm not as much of a jerk as I thought."

She stopped walking, and turned to him. Her hijab was black with silver strands woven into it, beautiful against the snowy backdrop, her brown eyes gazing into his blue ones. "Why do you bully and be a jerk when you know it? Don't you dislike it?"

"I'm a jock. It's what you do if you don't want the team to be against you," he explained, looking at the ground briefly. He realized his stomach was twisting with actual guilt. "Kwan is the exception because his dad is the superintendent of our school district, but my dad's just an engineer at the airport."

"That's not worth the word 'just'. That's a very hard job. But more to the point, I like the Dash Baxter I've seen today more than the one I see at school. And I think other people would, too. You're not like that. You shouldn't have to be, either," Tahira stated firmly, and he met her eyes again, uncertainty in his gaze.

"It isn't easy to change." He wasn't sure if he could. He wasn't sure if anyone would think it was real if he did. Dash knew what his reputation was.

"I believe in you." And those words made him smile the rest of the way to the store.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** I'd like to clarify that American Islam is very different in some respects from Islam in the rest of the world. After all, it's across the world from most Muslim majority countries, and so things have changed. The tea, for instance, is purely American Muslim in origin. (And it will hit you like a brick to the head, by the way.) I consulted with some of my Muslim friends to check that things are plausible, but they too are American Muslims, so if this story doesn't match up with the values and what is allowed in other countries and groups of Muslims, please keep this in mind. I'm trying to be as respectful as possible here. And if I get something totally wrong, tell me and I'll fix it right away!

Also, OCs! A slew of them are now entering the story because they have plot significance later.

* * *

Damian Alexander Baxter woke up to his private cellphone ringing.

The only people who had that number were his partner, handler, assets and his direct superiors. He reached under his pillow and grabbed his phone, instantly awake, a habit developed after years of service and training. Brushing his dark hair out of his blue eyes, he checked the number before raising his eyebrows and hitting the talk button as he got out of bed, feeling alarm rising in his chest.

"Dad? What's wrong?" he asked as calmly as possible – which was very calm, for him. Again, work skills applied to his personal life. He glanced around for his suit jacket, shrugging it on.

"Damian, where did I go wrong? Why do you and your brother do this to me?"

"…Dad. It is way, way too late at night here for you to do this right now."

"I mean, it was hard enough when you ran away to the ends of the Earth," Mr. Baxter continued, undeterred by his son's sigh and the way he flopped audibly back into bed. "I understand your job's important, and I understand you work hard. But Dash? How did you rope Dash into this?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. And also, it's nearly three in the morning here, so unless someone's life is in danger on my day off, I don't _care_."

"He's hanging out with a Muslim girl, and his computer had all this stuff in its history-"

"I'm telling him to change his password to something other than Paulina."

"Are you trying to get him to be like you again, Damian?"

He shut his eyes, feeling drained. "Dad. I never wanted him to be like me. I never wanted him to collect teddy bears, like the color pink, or anything else I do. I think you undid everything I ever did to make him a sensitive guy. And I certainly don't want him joining the CIA like I did. So whatever friends he's made, it's just because they're one of those rare people who can put up with this family."

"But he was looking up Arabic on his computer-"

"Two words: Arabic scholarship. Encourage him and call me when an actual emergency happens." He shut his cellphone and rubbed his eyes, yawning as he stared out at the cityscape of Jalal-Abad. As he did so, he had one prevailing thought:

Dash was doomed.

* * *

Sunday was rough for Dash.

His dad was Chief Engineer of the entire airport of Amity Park. He handled paperwork, he took phone calls, and he worked on planes almost constantly, but winter was undeniably the season of the most intense work. Between all the damage the cold could do to planes coming in that had to be carefully checked for and the sheer number of planes that had to get in and out quickly and correctly repaired, his entire team had to be on their A-game. Not one plane could be overlooked but they all had to leave within the hour with another load of people, as Amity Park was a cheap stop over point between several major cities. The only day he had off all month was once in early December. When he _was_ home, he watched the news and downed a fifth of vodka every night. So Dash should've been happy he was taking time to talk to him, but then his father brought up Tahira.

"I just don't see why you can't find another math tutor. One who speaks English," he half-sneered over his morning orange juice with vodka. His drinking was something that Dash hated, but he, like his brother, had given up on trying to talk sense into him.

"She speaks English. Better than most people, actually. And she's in Honor's Math, and happens to be the fourth best student in her class. She's one of the most qualified people in the school to do this. What's your problem?" Dash idly reached for the cereal in the pantry, feeling an argument coming on.

"You shouldn't associate yourself with the wrong sort of people. People will talk."

"Tahira," the blonde snapped, "Is not 'the wrong sort of person'. Didn't people talk when you married a Serbian woman sixteen years younger than you, by the way? It's not like having friends is a crime."

"Leave your mother out of this," the older man said lowly, glowering. "Vedrana was different."

"Yeah," he agreed readily, "She wouldn't have had a problem with me being friends with anyone. She never had problems with anyone. How do you think she'd feel about you getting upset over my tutors, my friends, my grades, my clothes?"

"…I don't have time for this. I gotta go to work. Get that Arabic crap off your computer."

Dash didn't answer. He'd looked up some basic phrases so he could talk to Tahira and maybe make her feel a little less alienated by the incredibly white and overwhelmingly Christian population. So if his father had a problem with it, then, well, he'd change the password on his computer and ignore him. He wouldn't let this ridiculous behavior keep him from one of the only real friends he had left in his life. All he had left were Star, Kwan and now Tahira. Star had known him since middle school, Kwan was a friend from second grade. He'd gotten used to the idea that he was never going to make any more real friends after that in his life. He had gotten used to the idea of Paulina always being there beside him. He'd given up what he really wanted to do with his life to go after football like his father wanted. Even though Dash had a passion for football, it wasn't his calling. It was fun. Or it used to be, before his father turned it into a full time job.

Tahira made him realize he wasn't done with life as he knew it just yet. Now that he was Paulina-free, he could breathe, and Tahira was willing to be there for him as he got his footing in life without his former friend. She was a special girl, and she deserved special treatment. In fact, Dash picked up the phone to call his brother. He had an idea he was sure would make Tahira happy.

* * *

Monday dawned bright and clearly, with Dash's break up with Paulina seeming a million times better than it had on Friday.

He was smiling as he spotted Tahira among the crowd of students standing around talking outside. She had on a light, sky blue hijab and a dark blue peacoat that matched her boots; blue was a peaceful color and suited her well. She seemed to love the color blue, which in winter seemed almost perfect, like she was meant to be there. Something about his staring must've made her notice, because she turned and smiled at him cheerfully. He made his way over to her, the crowd parting like water for a popular kid. He felt a pang of nervousness go through him, which was weird for him, but he took a deep breath anyway and spoke.

"Um, as-salam aalaykum, Tahira." He felt his face go red as she and her friends turned to stare at him. "…did I say it wrong? I'm sorry."

"No, no, you did great," she assured him, beaming brightly as all her friends snickered except for one, "But I didn't think you'd know it. Aren't you Christian?"

"I'm not religious. My Dad's an atheist, but I don't really know about all that stuff. So. Um. You gonna introduce me to your friends?" He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Oh, right. This is Adul-Rahim," she gestured to the boy who hadn't snickered, who was tall and willowy with dark brown hair stylishly combed over to the right and cut to fall in layers. He smelled vaguely of cigarette smoke and cloves, and had dark teal eyes. He had tinted teal glasses on and stylish layered clothes. "He was the first other Muslim I met when I moved here. It's a long story, actually. Anyway, we all just call him Rahim. Adul is really common, um, among Muslims, anyway."

"Hey there," Rahim said, voice smooth and dripping with more concentrated confidence than Dash could ever hope to possess. "Nice to meet you. Tahira says you were nice enough to help her with groceries while her dad was busy. I appreciate that. She's like a sister to me, you know."

"Cool. No problem," Dash said, but when he leaned in to shake the other boy's hand, the taller boy pulled him close.

"Hurt her and you won't be able to run far enough," Rahim whispered, voice positively cold. "Just a heads up." But he smiled as he pulled away, and no one seemed to notice. "Anyway, this is my brother Ferran. He's a complete dork."

Ferran sighed, shuffling his feet. His hair was the same color as his brother's, but short and messy, sticking up despite obvious attempts to slick it down. He was a bit short, with round, welcoming eyes and a grin too big for his face. His hoodie proudly proclaimed him a basketball fan. "Thanks for getting Tahira into sports! I knew it would happen one day."

"And I'm Zain," the third boy introduced himself, looking vaguely disapproving. He was far and away the most intimidating. His eyes were black and narrow and had all the warmth of Antarctica. Even Rahim seemed much nicer than Zain, whose heart shaped face was framed by dark wine red hair cut very short. His clothing was baggy and dark. "Tahira's ex-boyfriend. So, you're an atheist?"

"My dad is. I'm still figuring things out." Dash squirmed under his icy gaze. "I just, you know, haven't had any real exposure to religion."

Paulina's shrill voice cut through the layers of awkward silence, and Dash was almost grateful for it until she came over with her boyfriend, who was even more buff than Dash. Paulina looked absolutely furious and yet proud of her new acquisition, which was obviously what the guy was. His red hair was spiked like crazy and his eyes were more electric blue than neon. He looked down at all of them, which was fair since Rahim was looking at the guy like he was highly amused and utterly over this whole scene. Dash got the feeling that was Rahim's standard expression in reaction to everything. Zain was glaring openly while Tahira just looked curious.

"Wow, you worked your way down the foodchain pretty quickly," Paulina said with a smirk.

"Yes, but he's corrected that mistake by not dating you," Rahim remarked casually. Ferran high fived him.

"I can hang out with whoever I want," Dash replied firmly. "I don't know if you're aware, but some of us are popular without dating half the school."

"I'm willing to be part of that half," Rahim volunteered smoothly, winking and causing Paulina to blush and blink, surprised. He took her hand and kissed it, making her blush positively fluorescent.

As Zain facepalmed and groaned, apparently indicating this was a common thing, Paulina's boyfriend, Travis Navidson, stepped forward. "Don't touch her, towelhead."

"Don't use terms that could get you benched for the season, Travis," Dash warned darkly. "It'd be a shame if multiple people told the principal about what you said. This school has discrimination rules, you know."

"You wouldn't dare. It'd be social suicide," Paulina snorted, but she looked uncertain. Dash locked eyes with Travis and didn't so much as blink.

"Try me."

After a long silence, Travis huffed and turned away, storming off with Paulina en tow. Paulina accidentally on purpose splashed a bit of her hot chocolate onto Tahira's hijab, smirking and making a fake gasp afterwards. Zain's glare could have killed her on the spot. But Kwan and Star rushed over, looking annoyed. Star had multiple flower clips in her hair, and gasped when she saw the brown on Tahira's hijab, pulling a hairclip out and grabbing the fabric right away. Before anyone could ask what she was doing, she'd fixed the clip carefully over the splotch, hiding it perfectly.

"There, that's better!" Star chirped, cheerfully. "I hope you don't mind the color. I always wear white flowers in the winter."

"It's perfect," Tahira murmured, looking a little stunned. "Thank you. You're Star, right?"

"Yep. And this is Kwan. He's head of the Poetry Club now," she announced proudly. She looked at Ferran, smiling. "I got to read some of the stuff you sent in to the school paper. It's really good."

That seemed to break the tension, and talking broke out between them like flowing water. As the two groups mingled and exchanged introductions, Dash and Tahira exchanged smiles despite the prejudice they'd just seen so blatantly displayed. It was still tentative, this mingling of popular kids and the outsiders. Things could still go wrong. It began to snow as the first bell rang, forcing them all inside, but Dash and Tahira exchanged smiles as they bumped into each other. He liked her friends, and he was pretty sure she liked his.

Maybe that explained the way his goofy grin was stuck on his face for all of first period.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** Dash is going to make sooo many mistakes trying to get Arabic right, because I speak as an American: the resources for learning Arabic are terrible unless you live in a big city. It's really pitiful. So expect Dash to just flat out butcher a lot of what he says – unneeded pauses, American accent, and mispronunciations will abound. His brother's the linguistic interpreter, not him. (Come to think of it, if Damian wasn't currently abroad, this story would go a lot smoother, honestly.)

Thank you for all my reviewers and all the support I've gotten for this story. It warms my heart. I apologize this chapter is so short, but I'm sick and I couldn't drag this out much longer. At least there's some foreshadowing in here?

* * *

"You're replacing Yusuf," Rahim commented to Tahira as they ate lunch together. "Nice choice. The hair color doesn't match, but you got an athletic blue eyed bully. All he needs now is the IQ to get into Amity Academy and you'll have a perfect rebound. Probably easier to replace him than Zain, anyway. Z's a special brand of uptight."

"Dash is not my boyfriend, and he's not a rebound." She looked at him like he was crazy. "And are you drinking Slim Fast for lunch again?"

"I like the taste."

"You're nearly _forty pounds_ underweight. Ferran-"

"I'm staying out of this. I pack him lunches, he just doesn't eat them." He sighed, sinking into his seat. "It'd be better if Zain didn't eat them when Rahim offers them to him."

"Hey, he pays good money for it and cigarettes aren't cheap. Anyway, back to your boyfriend."

"He's not my-"

"Who's not what?" Dash asked, joining them alongside Kwan and Star. "Star spread a rumor about how Paulina wrecked your hijab around school, by the way. She isn't going to live it down unless she can come up with something that'll get everyone's attention off of it."

"Um, thanks. That's… nice." Tahira really didn't want to get into a fight with Paulina, but Star seemed to think she'd really helped, so she decided to drop the topic. "Thank you for the flower clip. It's very pretty."

"Keep it, I have tons of them. So, who's going with who to the winter dance?" she asked, sitting on Tahira's left while Dash took the right. "Kwan already asked me, but everybody else is still figuring it out."

"Oh, yes. High school politics. This is a great topic," Rahim droned, deadpan. But he answered honestly. "I'll be asking every girl I can and seeing what catches. Usually, not much does. Ferran's too shy to ask anybody."

"I am not! I just want it to mean something when I ask a girl." He huffed, glaring as his brother took a swig of Slim Fast.

"That's so sweet," Star cooed. "So Tahira, anyone special in your life?"

Dash paused in what he was doing and went very still, listening. He didn't know why, but his heart was suddenly pounding. He wanted her to say no. He wanted to know _why_ he wanted her to say no – why did he care if his friends were dating people? He didn't care when Star started dating Kwan, he hadn't cared back when Kwan was with Valerie… There was no reason to feel his heart race at the thought of her going out with someone else. She was a pretty, sweet, smart girl. Of course she'd be dating somebody. But then, Rahim had warned him about hurting her. Did that mean Tahira was available? Or was Rahim being overprotective? He felt his gaze drawn to her, and realized she was blushing and poking at her salad, looking directly at it and not at anyone at the table. Rahim was looking directly at Dash.

"Well," she started tentatively, "There's a boy I like. But I don't think he'd date a Muslim girl. So he probably won't ask me out."

"That's stupid!" Dash proclaimed, a bit loudly. "Anyone would be lucky to get to go with you."

The silence was utterly overwhelming as she looked up at him. He knew he was blushing. She was blushing. It was so middle school, so awkward, yet so incredibly right. She wasn't like Paulina. She didn't play tricks or bully him into anything. She cared when he was sad. She wasn't concerned about his status as a sports player. He got the sense she cared about him. And he – he had to admit, he cared about her too. Even though they'd only been friends for a few days, over the course of her time tutoring him she'd made some kind of bond with him, a mutual respect. He gulped. She bit her lip. The world around them seemed to dissolve completely until it was just them.

Words. He needed to put words into sentences. If there was some other guy, then he didn't deserve her. He didn't know her like Dash knew her. He didn't appreciate her wonder at winter, the way her face lit up at the sight of ice skaters, the perfect little dimple in her smile. He had to ask her out. He knew his father was going to kill him. His father, who had married a Serbian immigrant half his age, who had been an atheist married to a Christian, who had no room to talk. What was that saying – better to ask forgiveness than beg permission? He was going to do neither. This wasn't some dying flame like Paulina, not something he did out of obligation or because he felt like he owed it to her. If anything, Tahira deserved somebody who didn't have his reputation. But it was her decision.

"Tahira, would you go to the dance with me?" he blurted out, never looking away from her deer-brown eyes.

Her face lit up like the sun on a summer day's dawn. "Of course I will!"

Rahim looked at Kwan. "Told you they'd get together. Twenty bucks, now."

"Aw, man. It seemed like such a good bet before." He handed the money over, sighing. "Ah, well. Way to go, Dash. You're braver than I am. Paulina's going to give you hell for this."

Dash and Tahira exchanged glances, both of them looking back down at their food. Paulina was a wildcard, and so was Travis. The two were bullies by nature, and Dash was sure they were going to notice everything he did or said now that he was with Tahira. They'd make his life miserable. He'd already stopped picking on Danny and Tucker just because being with Tahira made him feel like he didn't need to be so angry all the time. He felt like something within him was changing. And while before, he might've been afraid of Paulina, now it was time to stand up to her. She and her boyfriend couldn't rule the school. They weren't the bosses of him or his life. He wasn't theirs to tell what to do.

"I think I can live with that," Dash declared firmly, and Tahira nodded.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Before we hit the utter and total prejudice and unrelenting disdain part of this story, I thought I'd establish why Dash's father has such a vicious hatred of Muslims, as unreasonable as it might be. I also haven't polished up the next chapter as much as I'd like to, so this is filler to tide over my readers while I work on the next chapter. I'd hate to leave you all without updates.

* * *

It was bright and earlier in Jalal-Abad, and Damian Baxter was doing paperwork. It was the easiest part of his job.

As a translator, he'd been doing so many live interpretations lately that he felt like his tongue would fall off. His dark hair, inherited from his mother, was slicked back save for the one strand that hung down inbetween his eyes. The office was never quiet, because of how tiny it was and how many people came in and out through the building. The CIA translation team was one of the best and legal or not, they took private translations on the side to boost their income. Damian was no exception, especially since he had so little faith in his father's ability to keep his job. Dash was too young to remember, but Damian recalled the alcoholism, the way it took years to work his way up the food chain to a well paying job. Damian had savings because he didn't believe in his father.

There were three people he believed in: Dash, his mother, and his sister. And two out of three were dead.

His blue eyes flickered to the photo he kept on his desk. His mother stood there blonde and blue eyed and fair skinned, willowy thin and small. In contrast, their father had always been tan skinned, dark green eyed, dark haired and built like a football player. They stood together, happy, in the picture from when Damian was nineteen. Dash had been five, pudgy cheeked and adorable with his sister's teddy bear in his arms. And standing between them, dressed in layers of excess clothing and beaming, was their sister. Her dark hair hung to her ankles, her pride and joy. Her eyes were as dark green as their father's, but her skin was pale like their mother's. She was eighteen.

Eighteen when she died, too. In Iraq.

He reached out and touched the picture frame. His own skin was dusty-tan like his father's, but though some women liked his dark skinned blonde appearance, to him, true beauty had been his sister. She was so kind, when he had been young and asthmatic, holding him in her arms and rubbing his back until he fell asleep. She had been such a greatly spontaneous person, repainting her room and cleaning at three in the morning, watching two news channels at once on her computer, believing in the sanctity of news. She thought she could foster peace between the nations of the world by working with Reporters Without Borders, by focusing on the civilians instead of the extremists. She thought the world could reach total peace that way. She was a dreamer, an idealist, a relentless believer in the goodness of humanity. In many ways, she was what held the family together.

Their father didn't understand. Had never understood; he didn't want to understand. After her death following twelve days after the death of their mother, it was all too much. And just like that, Aaron Alexander Baxter, now wifeless and without a daughter, began to fill up with hate. Hate for himself, hate for the organization that let her into Iraq, hate for the government, but most importantly, hate for Muslims. He hated all Muslims, not just the extremists that had blown her up. She worked all her life to foster understanding between people, had always been an activist for minority rights, and in the end her father had just dropped all her values and beliefs to go in the opposite direction. He hated with a passion and intensity that consumed him.

Damian joining the CIA had been so hard on their father, but it was clear that his father was spiraling into alcoholism again and someone had to bring in the paycheck. So he began to work, and work, and work until he had translated so many things in four languages that words flowed from him like water, to everyone around him. He learned how to take jobs on the side, take jobs under the table, and still put in overtime at work. The family got back on its feet financially. They had nothing to worry about once Aaron got his job back at the airport. Damian still lived in fear that his father would lapse back into his old ways and everything would come crashing down.

He pulled open his drawer to his collection of teddy bears. They were an obsession since his sister died, most of her collection going to Dash. Not one had been thrown away. He reached out to pick up a plaid one, and was holding it in his hand when there was a knock on his door.

"Come in," he said, and the door opened to reveal a woman in a niqab. His features relaxed immediately. "Jawharah. It's good to see you. Is that…?"

"Another bear for your collection. One of my students in the English language program found it in the hall, gave it to me. People still think I collect them instead of you." She placed it on his desk, and he reached out to press his wrist against hers.

He had very little feeling in his hands from burns, an event he never shared the cause of with her. She'd known him for three years. In that time he had always worn gloves. In the last year he'd taken to pressing his wrist against hers, the only affection he could experience, the only contact he could feel. It was always a sign of distress, of utmost worry and despair. She had seen him pace the halls of the building at three, four in the morning, flexing his hands and running his fingers through his hair, looking glassy eyed. She would have been offended at how he didn't even ask to touch her if it weren't for the fact he never, ever touched anyone else, had no other friends, spoke to everyone but her in dry, cold sarcasm.

Their wrists remained together for a long moment. Then he spoke.

"My brother's dating a Muslim girl. My dad's about ready to kill us both. Jawharah, what do I do?"

That was another thing he did: he asked her for advice. He defended her decision to wear the niqab to others. He spoke whatever language was easiest for her that day. He looked at her with respect in his eyes. His gaze was unwavering. The attraction between them had gone unaddressed for a long time, and might continue to be forever. They had a bond neither wished to break. It was hard to explain. The number of times that they had walked together at night, unspeaking, were uncountable but precious.

"You tell him it will be hard. It will be extremely difficult for her family to accept, for her friends to accept, for your father to accept." She held eye contact with him as he reached out and held out his other arm. She pressed her other wrist against his. "Her imam will come down on her. His friends may leave him. But some things are worth it."

"Yeah. Some things are."

They stared at each other, silence potent. His feelingless fingers wrapped around her arms, to press their wrists harder against each other. After a moment where his eyes searched hers, he shut his eyes as if in pain, and let go of her, slowly.

She left without a word, leaving him slumped over at his desk, fingers carding through his hair.


End file.
